14. Chapter Fourteen #2
I settle her onto the edge of the cold marble island, the contrast of the chilled stone and her burning skin making her gasp.
I pull back just an inch to look at her.
The war is still raging inside me—loyalty to my brother versus the starving lust for my wife.
He’s my best friend. She’s my forever. And I have no goddamn idea how to navigate the wreckage this is going to cause.
But then my forever reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, and the rest of the world goes dark.
“This is making it very hard to talk,” I ground out, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
She follows my gaze downward, her eyes tracing the unmistakable ridge against the denim of my jeans. “Yeah,” she whispers, a wicked little smirk playing on her lips. “Very. Hard.”
I search for something witty to say. Some clever, posh comeback that would prove I’m still in control—but the effort is futile.
Her shirt is gone, and the sight of her hardened nipples straining against the thin fabric of her black sports bra is actively evaporating every brain cell capable of forming a coherent sentence.
Logic is dead. Strategy is gone. There is only her.
I reach out and pull her back into me, but the frantic, desperate energy of a moment ago shifts.
I kiss her again, but this time, the heat is tempered with a heavy, deliberate reverence.
I kiss her like the bride she deserves to feel like, even if this is temporary.
Even if our foundation is built on neon lights and a reality TV contract.
Even if we still don’t know each other’s middle names or what we’re going to do when the sun comes up.
In this kitchen, under these dim lights, she isn't just a secret or a complication. She’s my wife, and I’m going to spend the rest of the night making sure she feels like one.
I lean my forehead against hers, breathless. “We have to tell him.”
She takes her hand and begins unbuttoning my jeans. Stroking my dick and I remember how much she enjoys the sensation. “You mean at this very moment, husband?”
“Shit!” I curse. “Maybe not this second. You know, while you’re…fuck! Aspen.”
Within seconds, my length springs free, and she says it again, her voice a breathless tremble. “Wow.”
I smile, a slow, predatory thing. “I’m going to give you all of me. But I need to take my time.”
She frowns slightly, her head tilting in confusion. “What?”
“I need to take my time with you,” I repeat, my hands finding the hem of her leggings. As I peel the fabric away, I lean in close until my breath is hot against her ear. “You should know something about your husband, Aspen. I’m a card-carrying member of The Supper Club.”
Her eyes go wide and her pupils blow out until they are nearly all black.
Everyone in certain circles knows about The Supper Club.
It is a high end, underground establishment where the menu serves far more than food.
It is a place dedicated to the art of indulgence where sensuality is always the primary course.
“The…the one with the rooms and the sex?” she stammers.
I can see the gears turning in her head.
For a woman whose family celebrates the Last Supper with solemnity and prayer, the idea of a club where pleasure is a religion, is clearly a culture shock.
“My mother would literally have a heart attack.”
“Don’t worry. What Mummy doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave as I lean into her space. “But it’s absolutely going to wreck her daughter.”
I leave her sitting there, breathless and shivering against the cold marble, and head for the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice pitching higher with nerves as she watches me raid her kitchen. “I’m sitting here completely naked and you’re about to...what…make an omelet?”
I remain quiet, scanning her shelves until I find what I need. “I knew you’d have the good stuff,” I say, pulling the items out one by one.
When I return to her, I’m armed with a can of whipped cream, a bottle of sea-salt caramel syrup, and a jar of maraschino cherries. I have a very specific fetish, one honed by years of refined tastes. I like to feast. And tonight, my wife is what’s for supper. And dessert.
I start at her breasts, the cold spray of the whipped cream making her gasp as I strategically cover her nipples in white peaks.
I move down, marking her belly button with a dollop, and then another just above her lace panty line.
I pause there, noticing again that she’s perfectly shaved, and I can’t help myself.
I lean in and lick her through the lace.
Just once. A searing, wet promise of what’s to come.
She shivers, a shaky laugh escaping her lips as she looks down at the jars in my hands. “What’s with the art project? Is this your…thing? Your kink, as the kids say?”
I love how curious she is. That wide-eyed, breathless wonder lets me know this is uncharted territory for her. The realization that I’m giving her something she’s never experienced before. That I’m the one teaching her this particular brand of devotion. Fuck, it drives me absolutely wild.
The truth is, I’m not normally this spontaneous, and I’m certainly not this romantic.
The Supper Club is usually where I go to release tension and inhibitions in equal measure.
A place of abstract, high-end hedonism. But something about this woman plants strange, beautiful ideas in my head with flowers, candy, a fucking future.
I want to give her everything, even the parts of me I didn’t know existed until I met her. The parts no one has been able to access until her. Until I was in her space, dying to know exactly what I have to do to make her scream. To make her beg. To make her undeniably mine.
“It’s not a kink,” I rasp, popping the cap off the whipped cream with a hollow click. “It’s a tribute. And you’re the altar.”
I start at her breasts, the cold spray making her gasp as I strategically cover her nipples in white peaks.
I move down, marking her belly button with a dollop, and then another just above her panty line.
I begin to decorate her skin with the caramel sauce, golden and thick, watching as she quietly observes me creating a masterpiece on her body.
I take a dollop of caramel on my fingers and bring it to her lips. My dick jumps as she sucks the sauce clean off my skin, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Do you like this? Are you enjoying this, Ms. Mysterious?”
“Probably a little too much,” she confesses. “I’ve never…used food before, I guess?”
“That’s a shame. You taste too good not to be sampled with my favorite sweets.”
I finish the work by placing a bright red cherry atop each cream-covered breast.
“Perfection,” I breathe, stepping back to admire the view.
“Aren’t you going to say a prayer before you eat?” she jokes, though her voice is thick with the same hunger burning in my chest.
I don’t smile back. I look her dead in the eye, my gaze heavy with a truth that transcends the games we're playing. “You don’t even realize it, Aspen. You are the answer to every prayer I've ever prayed. You’re the manifestation of every dream I didn't think I was allowed to have. I don’t know how I ever lived life without you or how I’ll ever survive it again. ”
I don’t wait for her to process that. I lean in, my tongue finding the curve of her hip first and swirling through the caramel and cream. I am slow and deliberate as I savor the sugar of the syrup and the salt of her skin.
My hand finds her center, and I slide her lace panties to the side to play in her heat. My fingers are slick with her pleasure while my tongue works its way up her torso. I trace the elegant lines of her ribs, licking every stray, golden drop of syrup along the way.
I sink two fingers inside her.
“Fuck! Luca!” she yelps, her back arching off the cold marble.
“Soon, wife,” I whisper against her skin, my thumb finding her clit and tracing it with agonizing precision.
When my tongue finally reaches her breasts, I settle in.
This is where the real fun begins. I swirl my tongue around the base of the whipped cream mountain, circling the peak before taking the cherry into my mouth.
I pull on it, suckling until the cream dissolves and her nipple is pebble-hard and soaking wet against my tongue.
I lean up, offering the cherry to her; she takes it from the tip of my tongue, her eyes blown wide.
“Good fucking girl,” I rasp.
She moans, her fingers tangling in my hair and pulling me closer, desperate for the friction as I systematically worship every inch of her.
I don’t just eat. I devour my bride like it was our wedding night and I’ve carried her across the threshold. By the time I’m finished, her skin is glowing, flushed, and stripped of everything but the scent of her skin.
“Still hungry?” she whispers, her legs tightening around my waist, pulling me into the heat of her.
“I’m starving,” I growl.